


blades of glass

by Maple_Fay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, spoilers for episode 4x02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-17 01:06:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9297467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Fay/pseuds/Maple_Fay
Summary: It’s not a birthday thing.





	1. The Consultant

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a one-shot.  
> Clearly, it isn't.  
> For clarification: this work does not tie in with any other Irene/Sherlock story I've written thus far. Let's see how it turns out. Enjoy!  
> Rating is most probably going to change at some point.

**_blades of glass_ **

**01**

It’s not a birthday thing.

Or, to be more exact: not _just_ a birthday thing.

Sometimes it’s because of Yom Kippur, or winter solstice, or the end of Ramadan. Or the blue moon. Or a Wednesday.

It’s not just plain text messages, either. Sometimes it’s a link to an amateur video recording of a string quartet playing on a street corner, sometimes  a picture of a muddied stiletto heel. Other times, very rarely—an emoticon suggesting emotional distress.

He never replies, but he remembers all of those messages.

Which may or may not be significant. After all, he rarely forgets anything at all.

\--

John is fundamentally wrong, of course. Answering the message would not make him ‘wholly human’; because when it comes to the sender of this particular message, he feels as if he’s _more_ than just your typical homo sapiens. His wits sharpen, his mind switches into higher gear: which is a perfectly viable explanation for his pulse speeding up ever so slightly.

(It is also a lie.)

\--

He didn’t insist on keeping in touch after Karachi. He probably could have attempted looking for her again, once he was done with the _clean-up_ , but since she had very clearly conveyed her wish to remain hidden in the night shadows (after being pulled out from under a much more sinister one) he did something completely out of character for him, and decided against pushing the issue.

Tracking seemingly unconnected information on his computer, showing sudden interest in this or that part of the world for no apparent reason? That’s not _pushing it_ , is it? It’s simply… defining the borders, as it were.

\--

_Happy Birthday, Mr. Holmes._

\--

_I do not happen to celebrate this particular anniversary._

(Which leaves a question of: what kind of anniversary _does_ he celebrate?)

\--

_Ah, but there may be others that do. My sincere condolences to Dr Watson._

_These two_ , he thinks, shaking his head in exasperation. Perhaps they might like to meet up for tea, exchange pleasantries? Somewhere other than Battersea, though.

He looks up from his phone and into the café John is sitting in (engrossed in tapping into his own phone), wondering whether to pass the sentiment on or not. The former would likely result in John believing himself the person responsible for Sherlock’s decision to finally give in and enter the conversation; the latter may, sooner or later, bring on another round of insistent nagging that he must do so. Both are quite unacceptable.

He smirks as a solution presents itself to him, and inputs a string of numbers into his phone, along with a simple _You can tell him yourself_. He reasons that, not knowing that John has been made aware of her current… status, Irene would never put herself at risk by actually calling Sherlock’s bluff and contacting his friend directly.

Case closed.

\--

His phone stays silent for the remainder of the day.

\--

“Come over for lunch on Saturday? Mrs. Hudson will drive you. She might even consider _not_ putting you in the boot this time.”

He shrugs, twiddling his thumbs and not bothering to open his eyes. “If I don’t get a case by then—why not?”

“If you get one, make sure to solve it beforehand.”

This actually makes him crack an eye open and frown. “Something on your mind?”

John shakes his head, not pausing to stop tapping into his computer. “Just want to make sure you make it. I think Rosie misses you.”

“ _Fine_ ,” he grumbles, and closes his eye again. No point arguing with an infant, is there?

\--

He manages to stay in Mrs. Hudson’s good graces enough to earn a place in the passenger seat. The woman is a nightmare behind the wheel, but at least the laborious commute is cut down to an almost sufferable time: which, combined with the promise of seeing Rosie, makes Sherlock fairly… pleased, he has to admit. He all but hops up the stairs, ringing the bell as Mrs. Hudson follows. John opens the door almost instantly, beckoning them both into the hall. It’s all much the same, Sherlock thinks—although why John still keeps some of Mary’s outer wear and shoes by the door is beyond him. This must be one of the things people like John tend to do—things that people like _Sherlock_ fail to understand.

He hears Rosie’s laughter somewhere inside the flat, and frowns, uncharacteristically concerned. “Did you leave her alone?”

John shakes his head, opening the sitting room door. “No, not alone. She’ll be with us in a minute—getting changed.” A nanny, then. Hopefully not an overly friendly one—or worse, a _fan of his work_. This isn’t what he’s here for.

Lunch looks like a fairly simple affair—Sherlock doesn’t pay much attention to the dishes, but there’s not much variety to choose from—and conversation doesn’t _quite_ flow for the first few minutes—Sherlock pulls his phone out from his pocket—but then soft footsteps echo down the hallway, and John looks up and says, with a hint of smugness in his voice, “Oh, thanks, Nance. Mrs. Hudson, may I present Dr Nancy Wake? I’ve called her in for a consult on a particularly… trying case.”

Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed on his phone, listening to Mrs. Hudson’s pleasantries and baby-talk, undoubtedly directed at Rosie—and it takes him a moment to register than John did not introduce _him_ to the other doctor. “What about me?” he complains at last, still refusing to look up from a fairly disinteresting newsfeed on his mobile.

“Ah, see, Sherlock—you two already know each other.”

His eyes snap up, and blood rushes up to his head, making him literally see red for a nanosecond.

“I believe you're right,” he drawls, putting down the phone and flexing his fingers against the smooth surface of John’s table cloth. The woman holding Rosie comfortably against her hip smirks at him over Mrs. Hudson’s shoulders, and the redness returns.

He’s going to kill her. Counter productivity be damned.

**TBC…**


	2. The Dead Woman's Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for leaving kudos on this strange little fic, and for all the encouraging comments!  
> I've yet to watch the last episode of series 4, so no spoilers for that over here - and anyway, this story follows my own wicked plot bunny out into the hills.  
> I should probably say I'm not making any money whatsoever out of writing this fic. Which I am not. I own nothing, least of all the sanity of my mind.

**02**

“Are you _mad_?”

“Hello to you, too,” she quips dryly, placing the last teacup on the kitchen rack to dry. “I noticed you didn’t eat much. Saving your appetite for _dinner_?”

“Hardly. Also— _Nancy Wake_? What if Mrs. Hudson understood the reference? She’s of the right age, you know.”

“No, she’s not, not by far: and she wouldn’t. History—or histo _rians_ —have a troubling habit of omitting certain details regarding women’s involvement in many an important event.”

He knows enough not to argue with her on this particular subject, and points the focus of the conversation elsewhere. “Why did you do it?” he hisses insistently, leaning a fracture closer to her, his mind cataloguing all the changes in her appearance—hair shorter by a good four inches, skin pale but not clammy, definitely healthy; eyes focused as ever, but with a tinge of a softer expression he cannot place—in her appearance. “I gave you John’s number assuming you would _not_ contact him—“

“And I didn’t,” she cuts through his accusatory tirade, rolling her eyes as if he were a particularly exasperating four-year-old. “Apparently you left your phone unguarded at some point after your birthday—the day I sent you that picture of a chess game, remember? John was about to take Rosie’s picture, but he saw my number flash on your phone as photographed _that_ instead.” She shrugs, wipes her hands into a cloth and tosses the fabric onto the kitchen counter, leaning one hip against it. “He contacted _me_.”

He doesn’t take a step back of huff impatiently, but a muscle in his cheek does twitch in annoyance. The movement is all but imperceptible, but naturally _she_ doesn’t miss it.

“Oh, stop sulking, Mr. Holmes, it doesn’t become you. The simple truth is this: John needed something from me, and I found in him an opportunity to take care of a business venture of my own. That’s all there is to it.”

“Am I a _business venture_ , then?”

She raises a challenging eyebrow at him, but the answer doesn’t come: Rosie mewls softly in the sitting room, and Irene Adler—The Woman, the dominatrix that have brought royalty and government officials _literally_ to their knees—moves to the door as if on cue. “I have things to do,” she informs him offhandedly. “You can tag along if you wish.”

In the sitting room, she picks up a slightly fussy Rosie from her father’s arms (the baby calms down immediately, and Sherlock finds his thoughts momentarily steering off in the direction of male versus female physiology and its effects on infants) and says, mostly for Mrs. Hudson’s sake, “John, your friend has expressed an interest in my work—can I borrow him for a minute?”

John’s poker face isn’t nearly as good as Irene’s, but Mrs. Hudson doesn’t seem to find Sherlock wandering off with a woman he’s only just met particularly strange. He follows Irene up the stairs, grudgingly noticing she’s lost weight (an amendment to the measurements he keeps safely memorized will be necessary) and trying to smile at Rosie, the baby’s face peeking at him from around The Woman’s shoulder.

Not a sight he’s ever thought he might live to see.

They enter a room across from what Sherlock knows to be Rosie’s nursery. A small, yet airy space is filled with grey filing folders stacked neatly up several tall, wooden bookcases, and some high-tech computer hardware cluttered around a massive corner desk. He’s never been to this particular room before, and yet he knows _exactly_ where he is, the subtle signs (perfume lingering in the air, a gun case stuffed up on the highest shelf) giving it away in an instant.

“This is Mary’s room,” he hears his own voice, tight and sharp. “You’re in _Mary’s room_.”

“It was the most logical choice,” she answers levelly, placing Rosie in a portable crib by the desk. “My work has quite a bit to do with what she’s been working on… before.”

It’s not often that Sherlock is left clueless as to what’s going on. This, however, is one of those rare instances. “Pardon?”

Irene flips the code lock on a particularly bulgy folder, and puts the thing away in her desk drawer. “You’re not the only one trying to dismantle worldwide webs of conspiracy, Mr. Holmes. And dear Jim certainly wasn’t the only head of the proverbial hydra.”

He feels a pang of anxiety he cannot comprehend (Can’t he? After all, _the posh boy does love the dominatrix_ , in his own, twisted way) and grimaces at her in displeasure. “Alas, I _am_ the only one with a brother conveniently placed in the midst of a government, who, although mostly a nuisance, may become a valuable asset in case of a… work-related clinch.”

“Concerned about my safety, Mr. Holmes? I’m truly touched.”

He’s all but prepared to present a lengthy list of reasons why his concern about her isn’t the kind of _concern_ she’s implying—to save himself, to add one more brick to the half-crumbling wall in between them—but then remembers another thing John has said.

 _She’s out there, she_ likes you _, and she’s alive._

Alive, yes. Out there—well, _here_ rather than there, but still obviously true. As for the third thing…

The cliché to end all clichés, is it not?

“Call it what you wish, Miss Adler,” he ends up saying, softer than strictly necessary. “I trust your endeavours will not lead you astray.”

She looks up at him, arms folded, one hip resting against the desk, waiting—for what? Should he say something else? And if so, what, exactly? Were his words not enough of a foray into… an _understanding_ of sorts? Did John interpret The Woman’s sentiments correctly to begin with? And if so, does this theoretically correct statement carry any weight or meaning into the actual relationship (or lack thereof) between her and Sherlock?

There’s a very good reason for him not _doing these things_ , he decides. There may not be all that many variables, but the matrix through which he needs to filter them offers too many chaotic outcomes for any deduction to stick: at least not without performing an extensive number of experiments. This is something he’s never considered possible before.

 _She wasn’t_ here _before_ , a small voice echoes around the walls of his Mind Palace. Ah, but does this change anything in the great scheme of things?

He looks at her again, musing at how strangely serene she seems at this unlikely place, and clears his throat. “I—did not expect to see you here today.”

She shrugs one shoulder, looks away towards Rosie’s crib. (She’s got dark circles under her eyes, Sherlock notices for the first time.) “I didn’t expect to come here, not until very recently.”

“But you’ll be staying.” It’s not a question, though it still feels like one to him.

“For now.”

He nods sharply and turns away, towards the door and the relatively safety of a world without Irene Adler in it—the world in which he can berate John Watson for going over his head like this.

“You can see me here if you want.” She pauses, inclining her head to one side. “Not sure whether braving the outside world with your darling brother on the lookout is a good idea—but I assume you have questions.”

He nods again, more slowly and poignantly than before. “Questions. Yes.”

“Very well, then,” she speaks breezily, turning away from him and leafing through a stack of papers with no visible purpose. “You know John’s schedule. Work around it, find a time that fits your purposes.”

This could be interpreted in many ways he’s not quite ready to consider—so instead he latches on to something that’s been bothering him since the first time she spoke thus. “Why do you call him _John_? You didn’t change the way you address _me_.”

She doesn’t make any comment on sulking, or lack thereof, but simply smiles at him: and the sheer _intimacy_ of the expression makes her expose herself to him much more than when she first walked into the room in Belgravia, tens or perhaps hundreds of text messages ago.

“You’re the genius. You figure it out.”

**TBC…**


	3. The Pavement Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am overwhelmed with joy after having received such wonderful feedback. Thank you, one and all!
> 
> (Słowo do moich polskich czytelniczek: mam nadzieję, że przynajmniej czytacie przy świetle, oszczędzając oczy? ;) )
> 
> I probably should have told you this earlier, but better late than never: Nancy Wake was an actual person, and a pretty amazing one, too: google her, if you haven't already.
> 
> Enjoy the next chapter!

**03**

He stays purposefully away from both of them—or three of them, including the baby—for a week, hoping that he can lure them into contacting _him_ , although that’s not really an option and he knows it. John is probably laughing his head off at the thought of Sherlock in throes of love, and The Woman… well. Irene Adler has clearly made up her mind as to Sherlock’s function in her life. A _business venture_ , ha!

And so, he waits—until he receives a phone call from Molly, demanding his presence at a ‘godparents’ lunch’, and finds himself being dragged over to John’s once again, making sulky faces at the back window of Mrs. Hudson’s posh car. Maybe he actually _is_ four years old, at least where _she_ is concerned.

“I wonder if Doctor Wake is still there,” Mrs. Hudson’s musings snap him out of the reverie, his mind gears instantly switching to full alert. “She was really nice, wasn’t she, Sherlock?”

“I suppose so,” he offers stiffly, keeping his eyes fixed on some imaginary point outside the window so as not to look at Molly, turning around to look at him with a pained expression. He genuinely cares about Molly Hooper—has done for quite some time—but she can be no match to Irene Adler, not by a long shot. And sometimes, when he affords to be honest with himself, he regrets that—for a fraction of a second.

“Do you think… I mean, it’s still too early to talk about these things, but… do you think she might be alright? For John?”

 _Now_ there’s _a cheerful prospect_ , he thinks, nails biting into the palm of his hand to stop the bitter chuckle rising in his throat. “I’ll ask her, at the earliest convenience.”

“Sherlock, you wouldn’t!...”

  _Try me_ , he thinks, irrational anger building up within him. _Just try me_.

\--

“Is she still here?” he asks on the side, seeing that John is taking care of both Rosie and the lunch. His friend gives him a look of deep incredulity.

“Of course she is. Where else would she be? I simply thought it might have been too much for Molly to see a woman whose body she’d once had on a slab walk through the door.”

“She probably wouldn’t have recognized her. It’s been years.”

“There were… other reasons why we decided it best for Irene to stay upstairs today.”

“’ _We_ ’,” he repeats, not caring how childish he seems. “You’ve got yourselves quite a cosy arrangement here, haven’t you? What is it, anyway, I forgot to ask you last time—is she sick?”

“Certainly not,” John gapes at him, the hot water jug in his hand temporarily forgotten as he holds it motionless over a teapot. “Sherlock, why would you even _think_ that?”

His irritation levels are climbing, slowly taking a turn into anger and frustration, because if _that_ hypothesis is wrong, and Irene hasn’t made any effort to contact him outside the realm of John’s house, then the reason for her being here must be something he hasn’t consider yet.

“Fine. Let’s say I believe you, and she’s actually a picture of health, although a stressed out and exhausted one. But that still poses a question— _why is she here_?”

John’s lips form a tight, cold smile, and he considers Sherlock for a moment with obvious disbelief. “Because no one will know about it, no one will _notice_. Remember the hospital, Sherlock? Nobody ever notices _me_. Irene is safe, as long as she stays with me.”

“As opposed to staying _with me_?” he challenges, knowing full well he’s being unreasonable, that with Mycroft’s lackeys hovering around him and watching 221B at all times of day and night Irene couldn’t possibly stay with _him_ (and where did that idea come from, anyway?); and yet the thought of his best friend and the woman he ( _what?_ ) _cares about in a very specific way_ residing under the same roof is eerily… disconcerting.

John watches him calmly, quietly, and apparently sees something he was expecting to see—though what that might be, Sherlock cannot fathom—because at long last he opens his arms, palms up. “You tell me, Sherlock. Or rather: tell _her_.” He pushes a plateful of sandwiches down the kitchen counter. “Take this up to her, will you? She’s been working all morning.”

“How charming this is,” Sherlock replies, slowly and venomously, even as he picks up the plate, “the way you care about each other.”

“It comes quite naturally when you’re sharing a home with someone.” A pause. John smiles, and the expression feels almost predatory. “You should try it some time. Might do you good.”

Sherlock huffs, turns on the spot and marches off towards the stairs. “You know what my life’s like nowadays, John.”

“Ah. Naturally. That would be quite _impossible_ , then.”

The word chases Sherlock all the way up the stairs.

\--

 

“Mrs. Hudson wants to play matchmaker.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Apparently she thinks you’re a perfect match—for John.”

Irene laughs—a quiet, soft sound filling the room—and shakes her head, her eyes still fixed on her laptop, fingers running relentlessly across the keyboard. From his place—back turned towards the window, right foot gently rocking Rosie’s crib—Sherlock cannot see the screen, and for once he finds himself much more interested in the woman in front of it than in the words she’s typing. “Well, wouldn’t _that_ be the wedding of the season.”

“Stay here, and people will start to talk, Miss Adler.”

“I’m not bothered by the implications,” she answers simply, saving her progress and looking up at him, her carefully made-up face composed into a picture of perfect ease and innocence. “Are you?”

He splutters a little, and Irene smiles—he expects a feral grimace, not unlike John’s, but hers is a much softer, genuine grin. “Why, Mr. Holmes—I believe you are jealous.”

He raises his chin and looks down at her with (what he hopes looks like) indignation. “I was merely trying to point out how futile your prolonged stay here would be. Look around you,” he makes a wide, round gesture encompassing the heaving shelves and the computer, the baby’s crib and the worn out, fold-down bed she undoubtedly sleeps on. “This isn’t you. You _hate_ it here.”

Irene shakes her head and reaches up and back to tie her hair into a loose bun, the gesture making her look oddly vulnerable. He’s so focused on the rise and fall of her shoulders, the subtle play of shadow over her clavicles, that he almost misses her next words. “Oh, stop being so melodramatic. I certainly don’t _love it_ —but happiness, satisfaction, _gratification_ —these are not the things we should be living for, Mr. Holmes. Having them withheld may help us focus on more important goals.”

“Such as?” he presses on, eager to understand her motivation, to comprehend the reasoning behind her leaving the safe haven of Not Here In London in favour of living in Mary Watson’s cluttered study.

Irene looks away, gazing out the roof window and into the dull, grey sky. “Being free of the pain.”

Something small and brittle snaps in Sherlock at her words.

“So you _are_ sick,” he pronounces proudly; he’d been right all along, and John _lied_ to him, and…

Irene gives him a different smile, then: much sadder, and… disappointed? “If your first association with ‘pain’ is its physical manifestation, then I must admit—you’re very lucky indeed, Mr. Holmes.”

“Well, if you’re not sick, then wha—“

She’s out of the chair and standing in front of him in a flash, so fast, in fact, that he doesn’t have time to react to her arm snaking around his neck, a ghost of her body sliding against his, her fingers tight and cold against his skin. He inhales sharply, attempting to steady himself for whatever is coming— _is she actually going to kiss him, right here, right now?_ —and exhales as Irene takes a step back, keeping her hand firmly on the nape of his neck.

“We all have our ways of dealing with the pain,” she says slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on Sherlock’s shirt-covered sternum. “Your _lovely_ friend, who is currently fidgeting in her seat and looking up at the stairs every four seconds or so, does just that: she frets and fidgets, and hopes for the best. I choose to concentrate on my work. And I find that this place offers me quite favourable conditions to do so.”

“What conditions would those be?” he asks, surprised to hear his voice come out all low and raspy. “Anonymity—what John’s already told me—that’s all very well, but other than that? What could _possibly_ be keeping you here?”

Irene tightens her fingers—nails bite into Sherlock’s flesh—and lets go, closing her hands into loose fists. “I’ve said my part, Mr. Holmes.”

“Did you? I must have missed it.”

“I find it quite hard to believe that you, of all people, would miss _anything_ ,” she retorts, finally looking him in the eye. He tries to read her face, to get under the skillfully applied make-up and perfectly sculpted eyebrows, to _see_ the answer in her: but it’s approximately as successful as his very first attempt at reading her, years ago, in a room much different than this. He could deduce something about her _circumstance_ out of the clothes she’s wearing (a factor that had not been available to him then), but even that doesn’t bring him any closer to discovering the truth about the _woman_ beneath those clothes.

And touching her right now doesn’t seem like a particularly _smart_ idea, regardless of the conflicted feelings that bubble inside him. ( _A great idea; a phenomenally bad idea; the only idea that makes sense; the one steadfast way to get yourself killed._ _Possibly: all of the above._ )

“Do you… want me to say something now?” he asks slowly, remembering with overwhelming clarity another time they’d been this close to each other, the fireplace burning bright and bathing her face in a fiery shadow. _If it was the last night on Earth_.

This, most probably, is _not_.

Irene seems to be of a similar mind, because she shakes her head and walks around him to lean down over Rosie’s crib. “You’ve been gone too long,” she says in a perfectly even voice—one of a considerate hostess not wanting to be accused of monopolizing her guest’s time. “And as much as I enjoy our little… dance, the gossip you’re so afraid of is bound to start any minute now. Come back when you’re ready. I may enjoy being in control, but I do not take anything without permission. Well,” she amends, and the playful sparkle in her eye makes his breath catch again, “not when it counts, at least.”

“Does this count, then? To you?”

“Go away, Mr. Holmes.”

\--

Molly gets out of the car with him, at Baker Street, and shuffles her feet on the sidewalk awkwardly. “That woman Mrs. Hudson was talking about… Doctor Wake, was it?”

Sherlock nods stiffly, instantly on alert. “What about her?”

“John doesn’t actually like her, does he? _You_ do.”

He blanches, staring at her in disbelief. “How did you—“

“I watch you sometimes, you know.”

“Sorry?”

“Watch. You. With women. At some point I—well, I guess I was hoping to know what your type was. To find if I could… never mind.” The tip of her nose is red, her eyes slightly glassy, but her voice doesn’t shake, and neither does her resolve. “I couldn’t have, not ever. And I learnt it the hard way.”

“Molly—“

“’S alright,” she waves him off, chin raised defiantly. “I may not be over you yet, but I will be. I will be fantastic, and amazing, and _loved_. And I hope you will, too. And that you never need to—look the way you did today in the car.”

“What way?” he insists, although a very strong suspicion has already formed itself in his mind, and is waiting to be confirmed.

“The way I used to look, when you wouldn’t notice me.”

The shoe drops, straight onto his head.

“And I think—she must be pretty special, if she can make you look like that. Is she? Special?”

Sherlock swallows and stares off into space, blinking rapidly. It’s the wind in his eyes. Ah, sod it. “Quite… unique, yes.”

“ _Your_ kind of unique?”

Ah, but this is the big one, isn’t it? “Don’t know. She probably doesn’t think so.” _Not really._

“But do _you_? Because if you do—Sherlock, you’ve got to tell her. Because if there’s a chance you won’t have to be miserable, then… then take it, and worry about everything else later.” Molly looks down, apparently unable to keep a straight face any longer, and Sherlock acts on impulse, wrapping his arms around her and patting her back until the soft, dry sobs die out. “I know you like to know everything, beforehand, I mean,” she says after a while, not moving away—and he doesn’t break the embrace, because once he does it will be the end (at least in one way). “But you can never know everything about _this_. And that’s the whole point.”

“Why do people do this, then? Throw caution to the wind, allow themselves to be vulnerable?”

Molly laughs—a dry, hollow sound—and steps back, looking at Sherlock with something akin to pity. “Because when you know you’re going to suffer either way, you take every chance you get to _stop_ suffering.”

Neither of them speaks for a while, but when Sherlock does, finally, it is with all the respect and awe he wants—and needs—Molly to understand he has for her. “You are an amazing person, Molly Hooper.”

She nods sharply, and manages a brave, if slightly weak, smile. “I know. And I’m going to find somebody who’ll always think that about me.”

“Of course you will. And if he doesn’t, I’ll break some of the bones he doesn’t even know he’s got,” he adds after a beat, which actually makes Molly laugh in earnest. It’s a very good sound to hear.

“Go away, now,” she says, and the contrast of her versus Irene Adler is almost incomprehensible. “You need to get a cab.”

\--

“She’s not here, Sherlock.”

It hasn’t been much more than six hours since he left John’s house, and now he’s back, bathed and combed and changed, not only in the manner referring to articles of clothing. It’s six hours since he’d seen Irene—and now she’s _not here_ to witness the great change? How very inconsiderate. “Where’d she go?”

John shrugs, clearly not understanding the gravity of the situation—not seeing _anything_. How can she _stand_ living with him?! “No idea, actually: but she left a message, in case you came back. She said that you shouldn’t worry about her virtue—or what was left of it—and that you would know where to find her, if you remembered where you left things off. I know, it’s not much to go on, but—“

“It’s alright,” Sherlock interrupts, his mind lighting up like a chain of Christmas lights, clues leading to deductions leading to answers. “I know exactly where to look.”

**TBC…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team #MollyHooperDeservedBetter.


	4. The Push and Shove

**04**

He never understood the appeal of such places—certainly not when he’d been dragged along with a group of people that wanted to see him… what, exactly? Lose control? Act like a human being for a change? It wasn’t an agenda he’d want to get behind.

This time, it’s different.

He’s still apprehensive about being here, amidst the crowds or highly inebriated individuals grinding against one another to the beat of something vaguely resembling music—but at least this time he’s got a purpose and a plan. Well, a purpose anyway.

The place is huge, covering at least three floors, with a black leather VIP lounge area at one of the levels—he would normally start looking there, but this is _not_ a normal situation.

She’s been restless. Sitting on a high stool, making men and women alike drool at the sight of her would probably be a nice ego boost (not that she needs one—no more than he does), but it would _not_ help her get rid of all that accumulated stress and frustration. And besides… she _did_ mention a dance, earlier, and that’s the main reason he’s come here, despite his rather self-assured proclamation to John earlier this evening. And thus, anxious to have his deductions confirmed (or destroyed completely), Sherlock Holmes does something he has never, ever done in his life.

He hits the dance floor.

In all earnestness, _hits_ is a pretty accurate way to describe his impact with a large mass of bodies moving to the blasting rhythm. He has no clue what to do—despite his proclivity to dancing, this particular form of the activity is definitely _not_ something he would have ever considered worth studying—and simply stands there for a while, motionless and stiff as waves of people—he estimates approximately two hundred bodies temporarily cohabitating this fairly constricted space—crush into him, stare in dismay and continue onwards. His shirt gets stained with other people’s drinks and sweat, his head begins to pound in a pre-migraine wave of discomfort, and he finds himself desperately craving a cigarette—or a shot of cocaine, whichever might be easier to procure.

His fingertips begin to tingle, and he almost convinces himself to abandon his quest—but then he finally, _finally_ sees Irene, and everything else becomes superfluous.

Sherlock moves slowly around the perimeter of the dance floor, observing and committing every detail to memory. She’s in the very middle of a particularly dynamic group of dancers—naturally—skin luminescent in stroboscopic light and exploding into small supernovas of colour. Is it glitter?, he wonders. How would it feel to touch?

Her hair is down: a beautiful, rich cascade of locks tumbling down her back—her _bare_ back, exposed by a scrap of material she clearly (and incorrectly) considers to be a proper piece of garment. There’s a flash of neon paint on the inside of her wrist, and he wonders whether his fingers might get sticky if he took her pulse. His own heartbeat echoes inside his skull, stronger, stronger still, and becomes a tornado when she turns, arms raises over her head mid-motion—and sees him.

People part before her as she walks, hips swaying—there’s a glittery circle around her navel, too, and Sherlock finds himself mesmerized by it—countless eyes following her wake and doubtlessly envying him fiercely. She stops in front of him, just out of reach, and he shakes his head at the expression of pure delight on her face.

“This is insanely dangerous for you!” he shouts over the deafening roar of music. “Somebody might see you!”

She laughs, the sound lost in the noise, and takes his hand, their palms sticking together instantly. She pulls, and he follows, because there is nothing else he could do now, and probably never has been, not since they’ve met.

Nevertheless, he needs to try and make his protestations known. “Not a good idea!” he insists as Irene smirks and pulls him closer, her hands fisting into his shirt. He spreads his fingers against her lower back, tingling against bare skin, and she hums her appreciation into his ear. She smells of clean, healthy sweat with just a hint of musk perfume—he can detect no alcohol on her breath, so at least intoxication won’t be a problem—not with ethanol derivatives, anyway. Sherlock tries to follow her lead and move in sync with the music, but he keeps on bumping into people, elbows and hands and shoulders colliding with various parts of his anatomy and making him lose the rhythm and bump into Irene, who in turn presses even closer to him, not helping his concentration. He tries to glare at her through the dim, heavy air, but she simply glares back, digging her fingernails into his sides. The sensation of having her so close, almost, but not quite, touching so much of her (more than he ever had), makes his head swim a little. He tries to focus on the trigonometry of two human bodies fitting into each other, the angles and curvatures that make this level of intimacy possible, but even the clean-cut math of it isn’t enough to maintain the clarity of his mind.

Somebody pushes at Irene’s back and she steps into Sherlock, his hands falling instictively to her hips—then another person pushes against _him_ , and Sherlock fumbles ungracefully to keep his footing, leaning heavily to one side with Irene’s body anchored to him—and then, then…

He doesn’t see the person, just the half-closed fist, thumping rhythmically into the air, and coming down hard on Irene’s left cheekbone.

She reels away from the accidental offender and hides her face in Sherlock’s chest, his arms closing protectively around her ribcage. “Are you alright?” he asks, leaning down to her ear. She half-shrugs, half-shakes her head, her hair tickling his nose. The noise is deafening, making it impossible to correctly judge the extent her injuries. “Let’s get out of here.”

Outside, once she’s safely wrapped in her long, navy coat, he inspects the point of impact by the light of a street lamp: it’s turned dark, and Irene winces at his touch, suggesting a bruising to the bone. There’s a small cut right under her eye—whoever hit her must have been wearing at least one ring.

It doesn’t look good, not in the slightest.

“Come along, Miss Adler,” Sherlock says, offering her his arm as he makes a swift decision, “let’s get you patched up.”

\--

It takes quite a bit of skill to manoeuvre around both Mycroft’s lackeys and Mrs. Hudson, but in the end Sherlock manages to get his guest safely to Baker Street, without causing any ruckus at all. Once they’re safe in the confines of the 221B, Irene drops her coat haphazardly onto the sofa and walks straight up to a mirror to survey the damage.

“Oh, bother,” she exhales, probing the purplish, slightly swollen area with careful fingertips. “I look like a proper amateur.”

“You look like someone who’s overestimated the value of collectively measured intelligence of a typical dance club crowd,” Sherlock points out, arranging the gauzes, antiseptics and other paraphernalia on the kitchen table. “Come now, before it gets even—“

“I need to take a shower, first, or it all gets contaminated again.”

He shrugs, acknowledging the logic behind her words, and waves at his bedroom door. “I assume you remember where everything is.”

“Aren’t you going to help me wash my back?” Her tone is teasing, but without any real bite of a challenge, so he chooses to ignore the ‘invitation’, instead busying himself with making a pot of tea. Irene wastes no time—the low buzz of water flowing starts almost immediately after she leaves the room—and ten minutes later they find themselves sitting side by side at the table, with Sherlock examining her face thoughtfully.

He has seldom seen her without make-up (not counting their first encounter at John's, but then the novelty of her being _there_ overwhelmed him), and the porcelain paleness of her complexion feels strangely alien. He reaches out and takes her chin in hand, turning it towards himself; Irene looks at him quizzically, offering neither resistance no comment.

“You bruise extremely easily, Miss Adler.”

She chuckles and nods, her skin sliding against his. “Not a very fortunate characteristic in my chosen line of work, you have to admit. And I think we’re past the last names thing, Sherlock.”

His name on her lips hasa welcomed weight of a promise, and still he struggles. “Why? You clearly didn’t believed you'd shared the same level of intimacy with me as with John, last time we spoke.”

“Ah, but things have changed, haven’t they? That time, you were doing your best to _maintain a distance_ from me.” She closes her eyes and relaxes a fraction, her cheek resting comfortably against the palm of his hand—has he even made a conscious decision to touch her thus? It doesn’t seem likely, and yet once he had done so it seems nigh impossible to stop.

“I still don’t think it’s wise _not_ to keep it,” he confesses, belied by his thumb that traces a pattern over the unbroken side of her face. Irene smiles—he can feel her facial muscles clench under his hand, and finds the sensation strangely exhilarating.

“You came to see me earlier tonight, didn’t you? And I wasn’t there.”

“If you’re trying to appear particularly clever—“

“I _am_ particularly clever, Sherlock. _And_ I possess the level of emotional intelligence that allows me to see your having come to find me for what it truly is.”

“And what would that be?” Is he sitting closer to her? He doesn’t remember moving.

“Your visit to the club, and all your subsequent actions, tell me that you _do_ , in fact, detest the self-imposed distance between us, and share my wishes as per our future.”

“Your… wishes?” He should be making verbal jabs and trading wisecracks, but a large part of his brain appears to have gone completely dormant, the remaining bits and pieces concentrating on analysing the implications of Irene’s surprisingly tender gaze rather than engaging in the typical push-and-shove of a conversation.

“I want to allow myself to _be_ myself with you,” she explains. “To show you more of what I hide from people in general, and lose some of the persona they usually get to see. Am I correct in assuming you share the sentiment?”

“It’s not that simple, Irene,” he snaps with little actual bite, and freezes.

She doesn’t seem surprised by the apparent ease with which her first name has slipped from his lips. “You’ve been thinking it for a while now, haven’t you?” she asks instead, reaching up to twine a lock of his hair around one finger, tugging slightly. “And of course it’s not simple. Personally I believe it would have to be a painstakingly long, repetitive process of constant adjustment and elimination, until we both reach a stage we’re equally comfortable with. Do you agree?”

Sherlock nods slowly, his mind snapping straight to devising timeframes of reference and creating mental bullet lists of issues to address. “It would take up quite a considerable portion of our time, yes.”

Irene grins, somewhat triumphant, a little mischievous but mostly _happy_ —an expression Sherlock has yet to see her wear—and moves her hand, mirroring Sherlock’s hold of her own face. “Years and years, I’d imagine.”

“Too bad you’ve only got several minutes left.”

Sherlock hasn’t jumped at the sound of this particular voice for many years now, but this time, he does, standing up in one fluid motion and grabbing a pair of safety scissors off the table, ready to pounce if need be.

“Mycroft.”

**TBC…**


	5. The Right Kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that's it, here's the conclusion! I hope you enjoy it - thank you for reading!!
> 
> PS. Did I mention that the title of this story was inspired by Fitz and the Tantrums' song "Fools' Gold"? Possibly. Ah, well, there you have it again.

**05  
**

Unsurprisingly, and yet still rather infuriatingly, Irene is the least fazed person in the kitchen. She lets her hand drop away from Sherlock’s face with barely a hint of a grimace, and stands up with smooth, silky grace. “Mr. Holmes,” she purrs, leaning one robe-clad hip against the table. “It’s been too long.”

“Not long enough. What are you doing here?”

“Hopefully—getting some treatment for my spot of a bother here,” Irene brushes her fingertips against the swollen bruise on her cheek. “Yourself? Can’t you trust surveillance cameras anymore?”

“Do you know—that’s _exactly_ what I thought upon being shown an image of my baby brother escorting a _supposedly dead criminal_ into his flat.”

“Well, you know Sherlock: being supposedly dead is a thing with him.”

“Is _that_ how you’ve managed to manipulate him into assisting you?”

“I assure you, Mr. Holmes—contrary to my professional proclivities, I neither manipulate nor force people to do things for me in private.”

“Be that as it may—do you truly expect me to believe that your motives are anything but—“

“Will you both. Just. Shut. Up?”

Mycroft and Irene both turn to Sherlock—him with dismay, her with a cautious smile on her lips. Sherlock rolls his eyes and stands up, adjusting his terribly wrinkled jacket.

“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d rather talk to my brother alone. Miss Adler?”

She raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t protest, closing the robe a little tighter around her throat. “Have a nice chat, gentlemen.”

Mycroft looks ready to strangle her with his bare hands as she saunters by him, but regains enough of his composure to ask, through clenched teeth, “Are you out of your mind, brother mine? Helping out a _criminal_?”

“You’re overreacting,” Sherlock points out, putting the gauze and hydrogen peroxide back into the box. “I am not saying everything Irene Adler does is entirely compliant with the letter of law, but even you must admit that she is no more a criminal than I am.”

“She’s a blackmailing, information-trafficking, law-defying _psychopath_!”

“Yes, but she’s _my kind_ of psychopath!”

The silence that falls after Sherlock’s emphatic proclamation is deafening, the low buzz of Mrs. Hudson’s old refrigerator rising in volume until Sherlock feels it enveloping his brain completely. “What,” he snaps at Mycroft, standing stiffly in the doorway, “no clever retort, _brother mine_?”

“Are you in love with her?”

It’s his turn to blanch and furrow his brow as he considers all possible answers to the question. He’d be lying to himself if he said he had never pondered on the nature of his feelings towards Miss— _Irene_ , but that… that was different.

He can do anything he wants within the confines of his Mind Palace. Here, in the outside world, words sometimes have greater consequences than actions—especially when one directs them at one Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock knows his brother well enough to realize it’s his job to understand what makes people tick, and how to use their individual triggers to manipulate them: something he’s only just accused Irene Adler of doing. Who’s the true psychopath now?

This realization would normally have amused him greatly, but not where Irene’s freedom is concerned. The question, therefore, is this: does Sherlock answer truthfully, exposing himself and by extension making Irene vulnerable—or does he talk himself out of the tight spot, risking the same final outcome in the process?

He thinks of the crowded dance floor, of hands touching his face, of countless dinner invitations.

Of Rosie’s head nested against Irene’s shoulder with utter ease and trust.

And then: of something he’s never thought about with any woman of his acquaintance—not until _the_ woman. That thought, that _idea_ , dark and dangerous and oh so very enticing, is what helps him make a decision in the end.

“I—you may say I _love_ her, if you define love as respect, care and devotion. I can identify these emotions quite easily, I know the physiological responses they invoke. Being _in_ love? I know nothing of that.”

And this, he thinks with painful clarity, is the ultimate truth about his relationship with Irene Adler: being entirely sure of himself in certain areas, and completely at a loss in others.

Sherlock Holmes isn’t prone to accepting such duality within themselves—not unless there is a greater cause for it. And the very fact that he _considers_ Irene Adler to be such a cause is extremely troubling: not to mention irritating.

It’s also something his brother can hold against him at any time—which is precisely what happens.

“You’re a fool, Sherlock, and for once I am not looking forward to seeing you prove it,” Mycroft says with a lazy smile more suited for something sticky and slithering. “If you feel so strongly about this, I shall make you a deal—I will not report Miss Adler’s unexpected state of existence to my peers, _if_ you take full responsibility for any and all actions she undertakes while remaining in the area of our government’s jurisdiction. The moment either of you misses a step, however, this charade will be irrevocably over.”

“Consider it done,” he replies with much more confidence than he feels, watching Mycroft suspiciously. “And that’s it? No… belittling my choices? No mockery? No _threats_?”

Mycroft lets out a short, raspy laugh and shakes his head. “You’re too clever to consider verbal threats a reason for or against any cause at all. As for belittling and mockery… you may yet find you’ve done that to yourself already, by choosing to place your allegiance with this woman. However,” he swallows and clears his throat, elegant fingers closing around the head of his cane, “although I do not pretend to either understand or approve of your decision, I will still grant you the right to make this mistake, and face the consequences.”

The stuffiness, the arrogance and the know-it-all grin make Sherlock’s insides churn in protest. “What if it’s not a mistake after all?”

“Then you shall find me extremely amazed by such an outcome.” Mycroft turns to leave, stopping just outside the doorway to throw one more poisoned dart into the kitchen. “I won’t be holding my breath, though.”

Alone in the kitchen, Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes, in, out, in, until his pulse slows down and the onslaught of conflicting emotions becomes a faint, yet insistent dribble. He picks up the first-aid-kit and turns off the light, navigating his way through the pre-dawn dark flat with practiced ease.

Irene is sitting on his bed, the side further away from the door, legs stretched out across the duvet and bare feet peeping out from under Sherlock’s large, thick robe. She offers him a smile, he thinks: the lights are off here, too, only a faint glow of a street lamp coming in through an open window—but doesn’t say anything.

“Did you hear?” he asks instead, wanting—needing—to establish the ground for the conversation.

“Would you like me to pretend that I didn’t?”

It’s somehow easier to know she’s heard it all—Mycroft’s thinly veiled threat, Sherlock’s highly emotional confession—and move on to the next item on the list, so to speak. He hands her a cotton swab, which she uses to clean the area around her broken skin, hissing and cursing under her breath; fixing a piece of gauze over the cut requires Sherlock to actually sit down on the bed and touch Irene, the gesture a throwback to a different one from merely minutes before: and then it’s done, and the first-aid-kit is placed on the floor, and there’s nothing more that needs to be accomplished that doesn’t involve them talking about feelings or plans or perspectives.

Which might be why, as Sherlock straightens up after depositing the dirty swab on the floor, he finds his lap straddled by Irene Adler, her arms thrown loosely around his shoulders, fingers playing with the ends of his hair. His own arms raise to frame her sides, settling gently on the perfect curve of her hips: but that’s the extent of his actions. She started this, he reasons. There must be something she wants.

“I cannot promise you anything, Sherlock. Certainly not my good behaviour.”

He nods, his nose almost brushing Irene’s in the process. His right leg is slowly going numb, and he’ll have to change position soon: but not quite yet.

“I would never expect that you do.”

“Why not?”

He thinks she already knows the answer to that question, but decides to voice it anyway. It’s what they both deserve—probably. “Because that simply isn’t you. You cannot be contained—which is why I found it so unnerving to see you live at John’s.”

“Perhaps that’s something I wanted,” she offers in the gentlest voice he’s ever heard her utter. “A quiet life. A perfectly ordinary family.”

“Perhaps,” he concedes, pulling her closer until barely a breath of air remaining between them, “but I don’t think it worked. Do you?”

\--

When he kisses her, she smells faintly of disinfectant but tastes of wine and watermelon.

When she kisses him, he initially makes a few interesting observations—texture, touch, sound, smell, static electricity on heated skin—but quickly foregoes listing off symptoms in favour of causing and receiving them.

Three hours later, when the slow burn between them is finally—probably—about to—most likely—be ignited into an actual fire, Irene’s phone buzzes on the nightstand.

And she, being a cruel, _cruel_ woman, pauses all but one motion of her limbs, reaches for the device and drops it on Sherlock’s sternum, turning on the speaker. “Hello, John.”

“Is everything alright?” Sherlock can hear Rosie’s soft mumbling through the phone, and grits his teeth to stop himself from yelling at John to disconnect the call, and throwing the device across the room. He reaches down, tugging at the ends of Irene’s hair tickling his hip. She throws him a defiant look, and kisses the part of him she’d finally turned her attention to just before the untimely call. Sherlock jumps. Or at least _that part of him_ does.

“Oh, perfectly,” Irene singsongs happily, marking the end of this statement with a purposeful swipe of her thumb. Sherlock sits up, the phone sliding down onto his stomach, and retaliates in the manner of a move he’s not entirely sure would work: although judging from the way Irene’s pupils dilate, he might be on to something.

“Will you be coming back soon? Should we wait for you? Breakfast’s almost ready.”

“It sure is,” Irene purrs, and Sherlock pushes her hands and the phone away, hoisting her up onto his lap. She laughs, he growls, and John sputters through the speaker.

“Uh-uhm… Irene?”

“I’m a bit… busy, John,” she answers breathlessly, pressing her fingers into Sherlock’s shoulders as he leans her back in his arms. “Would you mind—“ Sherlock gives the flesh under his tongue an experimental bite, and Irene’s nails dig in a little deeper, deep enough to draw blood, “—calling me back a bit later?”

“Call her tomorrow evening,” Sherlock chimes in, feeling quite fed up with Irene’s infuriating ability to keep a cool head while he’s trying to ascertain the effects of several types of… _caresses_. “Or the next morning. Goodbye.”

He turns the phone off and throws it to the floor, just as Irene leans in and kisses him thoroughly, pushing him back into the pillows.

“That wasn’t very nice of you.” If she’s trying to chastise him, then her actions completely belie her words. Sherlock groans and stills her movement, looking up into her quietly focused face. “And also—two days? Aren’t we getting a bit ahead of ourselves? What if I get bored with you by then?”

“You won’t,” he claims, and sits up again, a brief struggle for dominance ending with them falling sideways across the bed, skin on skin and breaths mingling. “I feel rather… inspired.”

“Well then, Mr. Holmes,” Irene bites his earlobe and does something indescribable with her inner muscles—something he’ll try to make her repeat in a while, as soon as he regains the ability to think straight, “ _inspire me_.”

**/end**


End file.
